Leah Lays London

The boyfriend surprised me by appearing at my door two Saturdays ago. He flew in for the weekend because he thought it necessary to talk in person about the status of our relationship.

I wish I could say that the discussions that followed were a total shock to me.

The truth is that long distance has been challenging for us. The interlude in the States this winter rekindled the fires in part, but over the last several weeks — that is to say, since my return to the UK — the e-mails we have traded and our conversations over Skype have been lazy and inadequate. One of us misses an appointment because stuff happens, and the other, after rearranging the schedule and juggling plans, winds up solo and disappointed and annoyed. The internet goes down over here or over there. There is a five hour time shift with which to contend. We discover that we cannot connect when we absolutely need to talk with the one person who, at this particular instant in time, knows us most comprehensively. We find ourselves increasingly frustrated and vexed. We don’t bother to rearrange plans anymore. We talk less than we should, less than we did, far less than we must. Because of geography, the two of us drift apart: slowly: inevitably: like the continents.

We had the difficult conversations throughout the weekend. Power games set to the side, we had fond and unhurried sex. I sought to commit his scents and tastes to memory, the flavor of his semen, how he touched me and the way I touched him back, those kisses, that tongue flickering inside my pussy and my anus like a flame. I compressed the muscles of my vagina about his shaft, raised the pelvic floor, and listened to the inflection in his voice as he wavered on the edge. I allowed the rictus of his face to consume my vision. His enormous brown eyes swallowed me up. When the paroxysm seized my body, I blinked away tears. He enveloped me in his arms and cradled me in the aftermath of the orgasms. He held me through the catharsis of sobs which followed. The side of a finger scooped up the semen that had leaked from my pussy. He pushed it back inside again. I giggled, and then he did, too.

We have suspended the relationship.

The love persists. So does the friendship and the affection. He and I still share an apartment in Boston. When I return to the US at the end of the summer, we can reassess and maybe revise our standing based on where we find ourselves then.

In the meanwhile, life proceeds. We have agreed that the two of us may not only fuck others, we can actively date. Falling in love is a risk we take. I am not looking for a partner for the long term. It could happen though.

Spring is a new season.

I feel liberated in this city. I feel so terribly alone.

~

Amadeo cooked dinner last night. We ate by candlelight. The brooding Sagrantino di Montefalco left me tipsy. Listening to Bartoli, we made out, but did not fuck. I went home so that I could sleep in my own bed, alone, with not even a sex toy for company.

I haven’t bedded with anyone since the ex-boyfriend. The physical urge is there, an omnipresent shadow. Frame of mind, mood, and disposition: these are lacking.

This remains a sex blog. I have no intention of altering that. The stories will resume once the laying does. This will happen — probably soon. Until then, I will go into a state of hibernation.

An older man, he has a smallish prick, but he knows how to use it. He has me suck him for half an hour while he watches me and he watches porn and compares my technique to that of the girl on screen. He slouches on the sofa afterwards and has me ride his penis. I lower my breast to his lips.

He turns me around when his orgasm approaches. I hold on to the sofa back while he grips my hips and drags me over his groin. When we pause the sex again, I lick the juices from my cunt from the condom on his penis. He calls me his baby girl.

He doesn’t kiss me like I’m his baby girl. I run my fingers along his cock while I suck on his tongue.

I want him to take all three of my holes. I get on the sofa and crouch on elbows and knees, raise my ass, and present to him. He prises the buttocks open and spits. Saliva drips down the winking anus.

“I want you to—” I start.

He interrupts. “It doesn’t matter what you want. I will fuck your asshole because I want it.”

A reader recently inquired about my reasons for declining sex after meeting a potential partner off of Craigslist. Here is the story of an unsuitable date.

I answered a CL ad over the weekend looking for D/s play. He wanted to meet me at once. I told him I was on my period and suggested that we talk first over e-mail and then get together later in the week.

His writing isn’t spectacular, but clear ideas for play shined through despite the imperfections in grammar and syntax. I gave him the benefit of the doubt. He claimed to have proficiency with Japanese rope bondage. The aesthetic of shibari fascinates me. I asked him to elaborate. He sent photographs and wanted to know which images I found appealing. I liked the arms knotted behind the back. I liked circles of bright fibers wrapping the breasts and bringing them into prominence. I liked the rope bisecting the cunt, making it look like some strange flower. I liked the patterns the weave made over the nude female form. I wanted to be tied this way.

Yesterday.

I decline to proceed immediately to his place, so we settle upon a nearby pub. Though he lives less than a block away, he arrives ten minutes late, just as I am preparing to ditch, in fact. But he is there at the wire, and he buys the round, so I stay.

He speaks about himself and his experiences with domination. He speaks about himself and his experiences with women. He speaks about himself and his experiences with bondage. He speaks about himself and his experiences with the world. (He is widely traveled and urbane, you see.) He speaks about himself and his experiences with the financial markets. He speaks about himself and his thirty-nine years of miscellaneous other experiences. He is infatuated by the cadence of his speech. I am an audience paralyzed by his presence. I present an opportunity for him to listen to himself.

While it’s clear that he is less experienced than he believes, the sexual parts ring true, and he is attractive. We agree upon condoms and a safeword (newspaper). This man — let’s call him Angus, since he is Scottish — then tells me to take off my panties. I am wearing jeans. He doesn’t hand over a remote controlled vibrator to secrete in my pussy. The request makes little sense to me. Letting libido override the klaxons blaring in my head, I nevertheless excuse myself to the toilet and humor this whimsy.

For the next hour, we converse about more of his experiences. I am garrulous when I have drink in front of me. But I can’t get a sentence in edgewise before he is speaking about himself again. Sometime during the third round, he informs me with absolute sincerity that his ideal for submission finds its expression in the Gor novels of John Norman. He asks me if I know the proper slave positions. Angus recites them to me. He promises to teach me my place in sex.

Ever since he had asked me to open my purse to show the panties I am no longer wearing, I have the awareness that I would not sleep with him. Despite this knowledge, while Angus supplies the pints from the bar, I keep on drinking them. I should have abandoned the date earlier. I have spent enough of my evening on this tedious, dour man. It is time now to bail.

I leave the dregs in the glass and rise from the table. He stands as well. As I collect the coat from the back of my chair, Angus directs me to henceforth call him Sir, to keep my head lowered, and to walk an exact two paces behind him as he leads me to his dwelling.

I ask after his order of knighthood, which he hadn’t thought to mention during his many soliloquies, but he looks at me quizzically.

I offer that I don’t think we are compatible and wish him luck at finding a woman who is.

I ignore that he names me a fucking cow as I walk in the direction of the tube with my head held high.

About a month ago, I suggested to Amadeo that when the weather warms slightly, the two of us should play in public. Even a brief session outside, with the risk of being caught in flagrante delicto appeals to me. There’s a sordid danger to the act. There’s the fear of discovery. I don’t want to be seen. But I get off on the possibility. It’s an illicit thrill — to get away with being dirty in places where one ought to behave with propriety. Given the ubiquity of closed circuit television cameras in London, a quickie encounter has an added peril.

I received an e-mail from Amadeo two evenings ago in which he outlined a scenario for us. Though he allowed a winter coat in acknowledgement of the weather, he wanted me to wear a dress short enough to ensure easy access to my pussy. He specified no stockings. I took care to shave my legs in the morning and brought the outfit to the office. After my workout in the gym, I showered and changed.

The winter jacket reached to my knees. The leopard print minidress I had worn stopped halfway up my thigh. I liked the bracing rush of air that spiraled between my legs as I descended into the arteries of the London underground.

Amadeo and I ate at an excellent Italian restaurant. (He is finicky about the cuisine of the country of his birth.) The waiter stood behind me when we ordered. Following the scoop of my dress, his eyes nestled in my cleavage. Amadeo’s amusement at how conspicuous he was found a mirror in my smile. We lingered over wine until 10 pm. Then it was time to go.

We drove north of High Barnet, beyond the terminus of the Northern line, and wended through narrow streets. Standalone houses replaced the apartment buildings of the interior of the city. After several minutes of seemingly aimless driving, Amadeo circled around a block and then doubled back. He parked the car and told me to bring the bag in the back seat. The side street we had stopped on was deserted: there were a handful of cars parked on the side of the road and no pedestrians at all. The streetlamps offered only a dim illumination to the setting. The buildings around us were dark. They looked to be abandoned. A hundred meter metal fence marked the boundaries of an asphalt lot. I surveyed the length of the street and didn’t see cameras.

Amadeo took the bag from me.

I removed my coat.

“You will be cold,” he said.

I shrugged and threw it over the trunk of his car.

“I am going to cuff you to the fence.”

He sent me to my knees, brought my arms up above my head, and secured the wrists with handcuffs to the chain-link fence. He pressed his fingers to my lips and had me open my mouth. The fingertips skated along the row of teeth. He stretched them over the tongue. He scissored them apart to widen the maw. The fingers spun inside. I forced saliva between them. I bobbed my head as though I were sucking his cock.

Amadeo brought the penis out of his pants. He hadn’t worn underwear and was most of the way erect. The eye of the glans peeked through the foreskin. The fingers made a circle around the thickening shaft and exposed the head.

I glanced all around me. Amadeo and I were still alone. I was aware of the goose pimples on my thighs and exposed forearms. I could see my breath.

The metal was cold against my back. Suppressing the impulse to shiver, I focused my attention on his prick. I licked my lips and waited. A jolt of electricity raced up my spine as I contemplated what we were about to do.

When he gave me the cock, I took it down halfway without a second’s hesitation. My head moved back against the fence, then forward, in the direction of his pelvis. The saliva dripped over the front part of the penis. I made slobbering noises as I sucked him.

The pressure of his hand tilted my head up and made my neck arch. The fence gave behind me as he pressed inward, the metal biting at the back of my head.

He jabbed the cock deeper into my mouth. My fingers looped through the links of the fence. I tightened my grip as I strained to accommodate the front part of the erection into my throat. I made gagging sounds.

He swore at me and bade me to throat the cock fully. I followed his instruction. The gag reflex was more pronounced than usual last night. It took an effort to comply. But I did. My lips came to a halt where the seam of the scrotum begins. My nose was buried in his pubis. I had his scent deep inside my lungs. I glanced up at Amadeo and conceded my submission with a needful look. He fucked my face for a minute or so. After that, he let me continue the blowjob at a more equal tempo. I interrupted the sucking to tongue the sides of his shaft. I accepted the knob of his penis into my throat repeatedly, surfacing for a swallow of air each time.

Amadeo took his penis from me. He used it to slap my cheek. He pressed down on my forehead and ran the shaft, which was sticky with saliva, over my cheeks and nose and then placed it between my lips. I sucked. Without my hands to help guide the movements, there was no finesse to this blowjob. He didn’t care. He had me swallow the spit that corded in thick strands on the lower part of the head. As the cock was now lubricated, I could take it deep more easily. I shook my head from side to side with the penis seated atop my tongue. The cheeks puffed up. They expanded and contracted like bellows.

He boxed the side of my face. He reached for my tits and tweaked them through the stretchy cotton fabric of the dress. He combed his fingers through my hair. The fingers dug into my scalp. All the while, he surveyed the area to make certain there was no one else present. I was constantly aware of the backdrop of the sex. It excited me to be sucking cock, chained outside, like a dog, like a bitch, like a slut. I was a mouth he had claimed for his use. I was a woman.

He pulled his cock away definitively and fished for the key in his trouser pocket. “I don’t want to come this way. I want to cream in your pussy.”

Amadeo uncuffed me and brought me to my feet. My hair caught in the fence and snagged, causing me to wince. Amadeo went to the ground. He wet the corner of a handkerchief with spit and wiped it across my knees and just below, where they had become scuffed with the dirt on the pavement. When he was satisfied, he pushed me against the fence and kissed me as though he had just returned from the wars.

I stretched my arms to the side and made a large V. He cuffed my wrists to the fence again. The dress was too short, but it was also too tight over the legs. He contended to pull it up my hips. When the dress had lifted enough to show my underwear, he shifted the panties — also leopard print — to the side and considered my cunt. The fingers slipped inside. Their presence made me groan. Amadeo wiggled them. The blowjob had left a puddle in my knickers. Now I longed to be filled with cock.

He rolled a condom on. He entered me.

I was conscious of my surroundings: the stillness of the street, the brick facade of the building across the way, Amadeo’s car parked in front of us, the long shadows on the pavement, the wintry arctic air, how the metal of the cuffs dug into my wrists, the movement of the fence at my back. I brought my knee forward and kicked my foot off the wiry mesh, drawing my thigh flush against Amadeo’s leg. The movement enhanced the angle of penetration. Amadeo yanked on my hair to jerk my head up. His hand gripped my jaw from below. He lowered his spit into my mouth. He bit my lower lip. He grunted fiercely. The fence buckled as his cock slammed into me. He came within two minutes.

I hadn’t orgasmed, but this didn’t matter. My cunt was raw. The sex had satisfied.

He inverted the condom, placed it over his index and middle fingers, and brought it to my lips. I sucked his sperm from the latex. Once he released me from my bondage, I went to my knees and mouthed his drooping penis. Before rising to my feet, I picked up the discarded Durex wrapper. “We shouldn’t pollute,” I told him, and he laughed.

The reserves of adrenaline exhausted, I shivered uncontrollably. I wrapped myself in my winter coat and, teetering on pointed heels, spun myself in a circle, taking in the neighborhood around us. Though we had been outside for barely ten minutes, the heat in the car felt heavenly.

I masturbated during the drive to Amadeo’s, leaving a pool of moisture on the seat. Whenever he could manage it, his left hand migrated from the stick shift to the space between my legs. As soon as the apartment door had shut, he sent me toppling to the floor and threw himself on top of me. The sex continued for hours.